Been feeling guilty since I haven’t really told you all anything since February. Hard to get you caught up in a web page. New York University log right? Let’s do the Cliffs Notes version of the last months.
March: Chinaka, the main character of this journal, filmed with Def Poetry Jam on HBO. Met Mos Def, Quincy Troupe, Dave Chapelle, Mumz, Russell Simmons. Wardrobe made Chinaka stop being a tomboy and actually put on a skirt and make up. Preserved this atrocity to be aired on HBO, Friday, May 9, 12:30 AM. Guess that makes it Saturday.
Protagonist took long planned trip to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Orange, blue, green seemed to actually be mixed into the wind. Spent first night looking at full moon over beach listening to Donny Hathaway. In following days, went swimming in the rain forest, got hardcore schooled on the salsa floor, fattened up on mofongo y arroz, reddened her back, let her tongue fumble around easy Spanish words, and felt like an entitled colonist. Country went to war with Iraq. Woke the next morning and went sight-seeing. Felt like privileged, dirty American. Legally purchased liquor for the first time, drinking age is 18, but just brought back the rum for more mature loved ones. Yes, she is a dork.
Visited Jersey. Saw childhood home of a close friend. Saw Rahway, Cranford, and all the other lovely, yet painfully small, towns. Next time she’ll go to Fairlawn, Matt. Went shopping. Broke tradition and got a pink shirt. Pink? Yes. The kid is going soft.
Came home to the Bay, hosted the Youth Speaks Slam. It was amazing. Spent some time with a friend, his family, and his ailing grandmother. Watched the transition between life and death, gorgeous to see my friend grow even manlier in this Gibraltar moment. Still, watching cancer take Elaine was nothing short of burning spirit. Same weekend, sort of broke up with someone who was kinda her man. Combination of the two events hit hard. Like a Mack truck.
April: Came back to school depressed, on pavement, picking herself up, falling behind in schoolwork. Snowed seven inches in April. April. Arrgh. Heartless city. And then out of nowhere, it gets warm again. Hot. Humid. Sticky. Spent Passover at a friend’s house, daienu. Said prayers for the entire world. Noticed herself coming of age in a volatile time. Smiled. Performing more and more in the city, four shows last week. Been writing new stuff, which she is still too chicken to share with you. Maybe in the next — and sniff, maybe — last entry.
Right now: Procrastinating on final draft of a final paper. Eating (good) strawberries from Watsonville, California. It is almost eighty degrees and raining. Strange to see this mix of college girls in halters and elderly men in scarves pushing past each other on Broadway. My roommate is studying and drinking a diet vanilla Coke. I haven’t combed my hair thoroughly in quite sometime. I wonder if I will be happy in life. I miss Oakland, but have grown accustomed to sunrises in the city that never shuts up. Secret: I love the new 50 Cent album. I have picked up a slight accent. I believe that if you can afford, yet still don’t wear deodorant, you shouldn’t be allowed to ride the subway.
Finals week coming. Study hard everybody. Or maybe that only applies to me.
